


What Wouldn't I Do For You?

by Laurtew



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurtew/pseuds/Laurtew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock were in danger, what would John do to rescue him? And what does that say about John?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: What Wouldn’t I Do For You?  
Author’s Name: Laura Sichrovsky  
Fandom: Sherlock  
Rating: PG-13  
Word Count: 7782 Total – 3688 in this part  
Pairing: Sherlock/John  
Warnings: A little violence and Sherlock in danger and some happy Sherlock/John-ness.  
Spoilers: None really. 

Summary: If Sherlock were in danger, what would John do to rescue him? And what does that say about John?

**Disclaimer** : This is where I put the statement saying that I do not own John or Sherlock, (Heh! I wish!), or anything relating to the show or books. No one is paying me to do this and if you feel the sudden urge to send me gifts, you might want to talk to someone about that. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat own all things _Sherlock_ and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Holmes and Watson. None of them have given me permission to use these characters as I have so if you have problems with the story, please send the pretzel bombs to me, not them. (Though if you could actually send a pretzel bomb to ACD, I’d be impressed.)

**Author’s Notes** : I just wrote a story called _Who Else Would I Call?_ about Sherlock learning John’s number by rote for use in an emergency. A line in that stuck with me, “And if I were to call and tell you I was trapped and bleeding, what would you do?” From that, we get this story. Thanks need to be given, and here is where they go. Thanks to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat for giving me a Sherlock I can get behind. Thanks to Benedict Cumberbatch for making this Sherlock so amazing. I tried to fight it, but he was just too remarkable not to fall for. Big thank yous to Emma de los Nardos for the input. I appreciate it. Thank you to Elin for reading this over for me and her wonderful encouragement. And my biggest thank yous to my guiding influence and my best friend, Ann. She’s the best beta ever and the Sherlock to my John. Without her, I am nothing. She practically co-wrote this one and pushed me to get it right. (Couldn’t do it without you, love. Wouldn’t want to try.)

  
What Wouldn’t I Do For You?   


John yawns, looking up at the clock. He’s still got two hours left on his shift, thought it already seems like he’s been here forever. Today has been a steady stream of sniffles and rashes and John is ready to scream from the boredom. He looks down at the paperwork he’s been filling out. He knows that they need to keep accurate records, but surely there must be a better way. He picks up his pen and is about to get back to it, when his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, smiling when he sees it’s Sherlock.

“Okay, what did you set on fire now, you idiot?” John says by way of greeting. He expects some equally acerbic comment back and is surprised by a moment of silence.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds distant and there’s an echo, like he’s down a well. “John?”

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

John isn’t sure how he knows something is wrong. Maybe it’s just the fact that Sherlock called instead of texting or maybe it’s the lack of bantering. Later, John will decide there was something in Sherlock’s voice that clued him in. For now though, John just knows there’s a feeling in his stomach telling him that he should be worried.

“John…I’m…I don’t…”

If John hadn’t been concerned before, this would have started him down that path. It takes quite a bit to shake Sherlock’s command of the English language.

“Sherlock, where are you?”

“I don’t…I think…under a building.”

“You mean in a basement?”

“Not exactly. John?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’m bleeding.”

Alarm bells go off in John’s head and apprehension gives way to full frontal panic. 

“Sherlock, don’t move. Where are you?”

“There was…” Sherlock doesn’t seem to have heard John and he sounds slightly confused. “John, I think there was an explosion. It was very loud.”

John feels his breath catch as everything Sherlock said earlier slots into place. Suddenly “under a building” takes on a whole new meaning and John closes his eyes to keep the terror at bay.

“Sherlock?” John speaks calmly, but firmly, hoping to break through what he now recognizes as shock. “Sherlock, I need you to listen, really listen to me.”

“Yes, John?”

“Where are you?” John slows it down, practically making each word its own sentence.

“In a room. I’m not…it’s dark and stuffy.”

“Yes, but where?” John struggles desperately not to yell. He knows that Sherlock must be disoriented, but it’s taking everything he has not to snap at his friend.

“I don’t…John, I don’t know.” There’s an edge of panic to Sherlock’s voice and John steps in to head it off.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. We’ll figure this out. You said you were bleeding. How bad is it?”

“My head. There’s something wet and sticky on my forehead. I’m assuming it’s blood.”

“How badly is it bleeding?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Anything else? Broken bones or anything like that?”

“I don’t think so. Nothing but my head really hurts.”

“Okay. I need you to stay calm.”

“John, I’m always calm.”

“Right. What was I thinking?” John holds on to that little bit of normal, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. “I’m going to call Lestrade and then I’ll call you right back.”

“Okay, John.”

John hangs up and pulls up Lestrade’s number on his phone. He dimly notices that his hand is shaking as he presses the connect button. It rings three times but that feels like an eternity to John.

“Lestrade.”

“Sherlock is in trouble.” 

Maybe some sort of preamble would have been a good idea, but Lestrade is able to roll with it.

“John, I don’t have time for this.”

“No, he’s really in trouble. I don’t know what happened, but…”

“John, as much as I want to help, you’re going to have to call 999. I’m not even at my office. Everyone has been called in for an emergency. There’s been an explosion at the St. Martin’s Lane hotel.”

It takes a minute for that to sink in, but when it does, John’s heart starts to beat a bit faster. He can hear that the inspector is still talking, but he can’t keep himself from interrupting.

“Lestrade, I think Sherlock is there.”

“I’m…you said…what?”

“He called and told me he was under a building and that there had been an explosion. Unless you’ve had more than one this morning, he’s got to be there. Are you on the scene?”

“I’m on my way. But John, as much as I want to help, Sherlock cannot take priority over everyone else.”

“I understand,” John says, nodding despite knowing that Lestrade can’t see it. “But just…”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thank you.”

John hangs up and sits, thinking for a minute. He understands that Lestrade can’t drop everything to help Sherlock and he really didn’t expect him to. But John just can’t leave Sherlock trapped and hope that someone finds him in all that mess. His decision made, John gets up and walks down the hall. He pokes his head into Sarah’s office.

“I have to go. Sherlock’s been hurt.”

She looks up, frowning.

“Is he okay?”

“As he’s trapped in the rubble of a building right now, I’m going to say no.” John doesn’t mean to snap at her, but his worry has been mounting and there just isn’t anyone else to take it out on. “I’ll call when I know anything.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, running out of the surgery and hailing a cab. He gives the driver the address then settles back in the seat, pulling out his phone. He goes to his stored numbers and pulls up one that he’s only had to use once. But this is an emergency, so he calls.

“Ah, John, how nice to hear from you.”

“Mycroft, Sherlock’s in trouble.”

“When is my brother not in some sort of…situation? What is it this time?”

“He was at the St. Martin’s Lane hotel when it exploded. Mycroft, he’s stuck in the rubble.”

There is silence on the other end and John has to admit there is just a bit of satisfaction in rendering Mycroft Holmes speechless. Mycroft clears his throat.

“Not that I doubt you, John, but how do you…”

“He called me. He’s injured and trapped. I’m on my way to find him, but anything you can do would be appreciated.”

“You’re going to the hotel?” Mycroft sounds confused.

“The police have their hands full controlling the scene and helping survivors. They can’t drop everything to look for Sherlock.”

“So you are going to find him?”

“I can’t just leave him there, Mycroft. He called me for help. How can I not respond?”

“Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you, Doctor. Do be careful and I’ll see what I can do to assist you.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.” 

John hangs up and calls Sherlock back. It takes four rings for Sherlock to answer and by the time he does, John is convinced he’s dead.

“John?”

“I’m here, Sherlock.” John closes his eyes, concentrating on Sherlock’s voice.

“Did you talk to Lestrade?”

“I did. And he’s on his way there. You were right. There was an explosion.”

“I thought so. My ears are still ringing from it.”

The cab comes to a stop and John looks out the window, seeing the street blocked off by emergency vehicles. He looks around, noting that he’s only a couple of blocks from the hotel.

“Sherlock? Hold on a second.” John leans over the seat, looking at the cab driver. “I’ll walk from here.”

He pays the driver and gets out, looking around. He sees yellow police tape blocking the street a few feet away and sighs. John really hopes Lestrade’s name carries some weight. He walks over to the officer guarding the tape.

“I’m sorry, sir, but no one is allowed beyond this point.”

John pulls out his medical identification from the surgery and holds it up.

“I’m here to meet DI Lestrade. I’m a doctor and he asked for my help.” 

It’s not a complete lie, really; Lestrade asks for his help on a regular basis.

The man looks at the ID, then at John, who is struggling to keep his expression neutral. After a minute, he nods and holds the tape up for John.

“Thank you,” John says as he ducks under.

John supposes that he would have gotten more scrutiny or that the officer would have worked harder to corroborate his story if half a building wasn’t in smoking ruins a block or so away. He can see the destruction from here and it twists his stomach. Suddenly he remembers he has Sherlock on the phone.

“Sherlock?”

“John. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“Not entirely. I had to get past the barricades.”

“You what?”

“The police have closed down the entirety of St. Martin’s lane.”

“Wait. You’re here?”

“Of course I am.”

There is silence on the other end and John wonders if they’ve been cut off.

“John, I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” John says, trying to defuse the emotional tension he hears in Sherlock’s voice. “Do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces,” Sherlock says.

“Why were you at the hotel?”

“The hotel? Right! The St. Martin’s Lane. There was a lecture I wanted to attend. Fascinating, really. Using florescent molecules to identify toxins in the body that couldn’t have been detected before.”

“So you went to the lecture?”

“And the luncheon afterwards. I wanted to talk to the men who made the discovery. You must see how this will impact our work.”

“Yeah, I can. And I understand why you were there. But what about the explosion, Sherlock?”

“I…there was a man. He…there was something about him, something wrong. He went back to the kitchens and I followed him. I just wanted to talk to him, but when he saw me, he ran.”

“And of course, you chased him.”

“Well, I couldn’t just let him get away, could I?”

John sees another barricade and holds up his medical ID. The officer waves him on and John is standing in front of the big glass building that now has a gaping hole. He walks towards the center of all the activity.

“Did you catch him?”

“I…yes, yes I did. He went into a storage room and I had him trapped. We…I think we fought. I remember punching him and I think he kicked me in the ribs. But then he ran out of the room.”

“So you followed him?”

“I…I started to. He…I think he went out the back door. But as I ran after him…I…that must have been the explosion, because I just remember a loud noise and being knocked backwards.”

“Okay, so you are somewhere back by the kitchens off the conference rooms?”

“I…I think so. That would make sense.”

“Sherlock, I’m going to hang up and call Lestrade. Since we know where you are, maybe we can get some rescue workers to get you out.”

“All right, John.”

John dials Lestrade’s number again and it’s picked up on the third ring.

“Lestrade.”

“It’s John. Sherlock is at the back, over by the kitchens. Can you meet me there?”

“Meet you…John, what the hell?”

“You said the police were busy.”

“So you came to find him? Are you crazy?”

“Probably. But I’m already here, so can you meet me at the kitchens?”

“John, that’s the center of the explosion. All the rescue teams are in that area already.”

John has been picking his way through debris on his way to the back of the hotel. As he gets around a large chunk of concrete, he stops, his eyes going wide. Lestrade wasn’t kidding. There was damage at the front of the building, but here, back towards Bedfordbury Street, there are bigger piles of twisted metal and broken glass. It looks like it took a large chunk out of the Coliseum next door as well. There are people running everywhere and John sees that it looks like the floor of the hotel has caved in.

“God,” John whispers, shaking his head.

“Seen it, have you?” Lestrade asks into his ear.

“I…yeah, I…” John is suddenly speechless at the idea that Sherlock is trapped somewhere in this mess.

“Where exactly are you?”

“I’m…probably about forty meters from Bedfordbury Street.” There’s a pause.

“Put your hand up,” Lestrade says and John does. “There. I see you.”

John turns around to see Lestrade walking towards him and he hangs up his phone.

“You do realize that you’re breaking at least six laws by just being here, don’t you?”

“I couldn’t just…”

“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade says, cutting him off. “Which is why I’m not sending you home. Come on. Stay with me, though. Where did you say Sherlock was?”

He turns and walks back towards the hotel and John falls into step next to him.

“He said he was following some man out the back kitchen doors when the explosion went off.”

Lestrade frowns.

“That’s not possible. We’re pretty sure the bomb went off in the kitchen. If Sherlock was there, he wouldn’t have survived.”

John thinks, going over everything Sherlock said. His eyes go wide as he remembers back to the beginning of their conversation.

“He said he’s in a room. It’s dark and stuffy.”

“A room? John, there aren’t any rooms in the kitchen.”

“But…” John pauses as something else Sherlock said ghosts through his head. _He went into a storage room and I had him trapped_. “That’s it! He must have been blown back into the storage room.”

John is scrambling for his phone. He dials and feels relief flood him when Sherlock answers.

“John?” His voice is quiet and it still has that echoing quality.

“I’m here. I’ve got Lestrade and we’re pretty sure we know where you are.”

“John, I’m getting dizzy.”

John stops walking and Lestrade looks at him.

“Is it from blood loss? Sherlock is that cut on your head bleeding again?”

“I…I don’t think so. John, it’s getting harder to breathe.”

Sherlock’s words come back to John; _dark and stuffy_. The door to the room closed with the explosion. It’s a storage room for food…it’s…

“Oh, god, it’s airtight,” John says out loud and instantly regrets it.

“Ah. That explains quite a bit,” Sherlock says, his voice just above a whisper.

“Don’t panic,” John says. “We know where you are and we’re coming to get you. Hold on.”

He hangs up the phone and looks at Lestrade, his eyes pleading and the two of them take off at a run.

“Do we have a map?” John asks. “Some way to tell where the room is?”

“Over here.”

Lestrade leads John to a van parked on Bedfordbury Street. There’s a table set up just to the side, a makeshift center of operations, with radios on chargers, water bottles, and flashlights. Lestrade picks up a paper, unfolding plans for the building. John moves to stand next to him, leaning over to look.

“Here’s the kitchen,” Lestrade says, pointing at a section of the plans. “This is a walk in refrigerator. I think this is the freezer.”

“There,” John says, relief flooding through him. “It’s a concrete room labeled ‘dry goods storage’. That has to be it.”

Lestrade grabs a flashlight and hands another one to John. He walks over to the van and gets John a yellow visibility vest, like the one he’s wearing, and pulls out two safety helmets. He hands one to John, who looks at it for a minute, then puts it on.

“The fire brigade has declared the building safe for search and rescue work, but watch your step.” Lestrade says, looking intently at John. “If they radio me and tell me that we have to evacuate, I don’t care how close you think we are; you will leave the building. I won’t have you become a casualty trying to save Sherlock and I’ll arrest you if I have to. Do you understand?”

John looks at Lestrade for a minute. He wants to tell him that there’s no way he’s letting Sherlock die, but he knows Lestrade is right. He knows from his military training that you don’t take unacceptable risks, even to save one of your men. He also knows that Lestrade is taking a huge risk letting John be here and he can’t abuse that trust. He doesn’t like it, but he nods his agreement. Lestrade nods back and they take off towards the building. It takes them about twenty minutes to make it through the rubble to the remains of the kitchen, and John hears a clock ticking in his head. How much longer does Sherlock have? 

They step into the kitchen and John stops, his breath caught in his lungs. There is a huge hole where half the room should be. He saw this kind of destruction in Afghanistan, but it’s shocking to witness it in a domestic context. He’s looking around, trying to adjust to it all, when Lestrade touches his arm. John turns to look at him, his brow furrowing when he sees the expression on Lestrade’s face.

“What?”

“John…I…”

“What’s wrong?”

Lestrade turns and leads John back towards the storage area, but they don’t get all the way in because that section of the building is just gone. John blinks, not understanding. His mind is spinning, trying to work out what he’s seeing. It takes a minute, but then, like one of those optical illusions that you have to stare at, it all falls into place and he realizes that the floor has collapsed, taking the storage room with it. John’s knees start to shake and he turns to look at Lestrade.

“But, how…did the room collapse?” John is staring at Lestrade. “But we know he’s alive. So…could the whole room have just sunk down?”

“If the room was built around steel girders and sunk down without too much force, possibly.”

“That has to be it,” John says, nodding. “We’ve talked to him and the room is intact. What do we do now? We know he’s still alive and he’s short on air.”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to get some rescue workers over here to dig him out.”

“How long will that take?”

“I…There’s no way to know.”

“He doesn’t have that long left,” John says, fighting the urge to shake Lestrade. “The air in that room is running out.”

“I’ll go get people to help,” Lestrade says, running off.

John stands, looking at the hole. He takes a deep breath and calls Sherlock.

“Hello, John.”

“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m right above you.”

“Above me?”

“The room…it’s…well, it collapsed down.”

“Ah. That must have happened with the initial explosion. I was a bit disoriented at the beginning.” Sherlock pauses for a minute. “If the room fell down, it must be buried now.”

“A bit, yeah.”

“So, you won’t be able to get to me.”

“Yes, Sherlock, we will. Lestrade is getting rescue workers and digging equipment and we are going to get you out.”

“But, likely not before I run out of air.” John wants to contradict him, he even takes a breath to do so, but he just can’t bring himself to lie to Sherlock, so he says nothing. “It’s okay, John. I know you tried. I can’t believe you came all the way down here.”

“It’s for you. How could I do anything else?” John closes his eyes, fighting despair. He swallows hard. “And I’ll be damned if I’m giving up now. I’m hanging up so you can conserve your air and I will get you out. Do you understand?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet. “Thank you.”

John hangs up, fighting the urge to scream. He hears a noise and turns to see Lestrade walking in with six other men. They have ropes, buckets, and shovels. Lestrade walks up to John.

“Did you talk to him?” 

John nods.

“He understands the situation and we hung up to conserve air.” John looks at the men with Lestrade. “This is the best you could do? We need more men. He doesn’t have that much time.”

“John, I know you’re worried, but remember there are other people trapped and injured as well. And these men are supposed to be on a break. They came to help dig instead.”

John presses his lips together, feeling ashamed. He nods, turning to the men.

“Thank you. He’s over this way.”

They set up a relay system, four of them pulling out debris and buckets of dirt, handing them up to the others. John went down with the first shift, needing to be closer to Sherlock, to be doing something physical to get to him. But when he cut his hand on a piece of glass, Lestrade sent him up. Now he’s standing, looking down the hole, waiting for the next bucket of dirt. He’s not sure how long they’ve been at it; it feels like hours. Every now and then, he calls Sherlock, just to check on him and he’s getting increasingly panicked by how listless Sherlock sounds.

“Where are we at?” John calls down the hole. He knows he must be driving the others crazy with how often he asks, but he just can’t help it. “Have we gotten to the room yet?”

“No, John,” Lestrade calls up. “We’ve hit a patch of metal and wires. It’s slow going right now.”

“Should I see if we can get more help?”

“It might not be a bad idea,” Lestrade says. “More people would make this go faster.”

John is turning to leave when he sees Sally Donavan walk in. She’s covered in dirt and she looks exhausted. She’s also being followed by a man wearing a uniform. She points at John.

“There he is,” she says. “That’s John Watson.”

The man nods at her and walks over to John, standing at attention.

“Captain Watson, sir?” John blinks, nodding before he even realizes that he is. “I’m Lieutenant Mayfield. My men and I have been temporarily assigned to your command. What are your orders, sir?”

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

John is stunned and it takes him a second to realize exactly what’s going on here. He closes his eyes and silently thanks Mycroft. He’s going to have to do something nice for that man when this is all over. John opens his eyes and smiles at Lt. Mayfield.

“You didn’t happen to bring any digging equipment, did you?”

“Yes, sir. Our unit is equipped for excavation work.”

John can’t even talk for a minute and he thinks he’s definitely going to make Sherlock play nice with his brother from here on out. John nods.

“Okay then, Lieutenant. Bring your equipment and your men in here. We have a casualty down that hole.”

“Yes, sir.” The Lieutenant turns on his heel and goes out the door.

John turns back to the hole, ignoring the open stares of the other rescue workers.

“Lestrade!”

“Did you get help?”

“I did. But you’re going to have to get out of the way.” John pulls out his phone and dials Sherlock.

“John.” The voice is barely a whisper.

“You are going to have to be nicer to your brother, you know.”

“I’m dying and that’s the last thing you’re going to say to me?”

“You aren’t dying. Mycroft sent help.”

“And oddly, I’m not comforted by that.”

“Well, I am. You need to hold on for just a bit longer. We’ll have you out soon.”

“I’ll try, John.”

“You’d better. Because if you die…”

“You’ll never speak to me again?”

John closes his eyes against the joke, finding nothing funny about it.

“No. If you die, you’ll leave me broken. So, let’s avoid that, shall we?”

Sherlock is quiet for a minute.

“Let’s,” he says finally.

Lestrade and the other men have climbed out of the hole and John hears the measured steps of the soldiers behind him.

“Okay, Sherlock. Hold on. We’re coming to get you.”

“Thank you, John.”

John turns to Lt. Mayfield.

“Okay, men, let’s get to work.”

Lestrade is staring at the soldiers looking very confused. John shrugs at him, not wanting to spare the time to explain. He’s surprised how easy it is for him to slip back into command mode, not even realizing that he’s giving orders as he directs operations. The soldiers bring in heavy excavation equipment and it’s not long before they are carefully tunneling through the layers of dirt and debris that had been such a challenge to do by hand. John steps back to stand with Lestrade.

“Who are these men?” Lestrade asks quietly.

“Sherlock’s brother sent them.”

“Ah. Well that makes sense.”

John isn’t sure how long it takes, but it couldn’t have been more than 20 minutes before the Lieutenant is calling to him again.

“Captain Watson, sir, we’ve hit concrete.”

“Does it sound hollow below it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just a second,” John says, pulling out his phone.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds weak and John bites his lower lip.

“Sherlock, do you hear noise above you?”

“I did.”

John turns to the Lieutenant.

“Have one of the men pound on the concrete.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sherlock, tell me if you hear anything.”

It’s quiet for a second, then John hears a hollow metallic thunk.

“I heard that,” Sherlock says. “It’s right above me.”

“Good. That’s us. Hold on a minute.” The Lieutenant has returned and John looks at him. “How do we get through without collapsing the ceiling on him?”

“There are support beams in the ceiling, sir. If we make a hole between them, we should be able to get to him without incident.”

“Do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Is there a box or anything you can get under? We’re coming through the ceiling.”

“I…let me look around.” John can hear scuffling noises over the phone and then Sherlock is back. “I found a plastic crate.”

“Good enough. Get under it.”

“Yes, John.”

John hangs up the phone and strides over to stand next to Lt. Mayfield. 

“How are we making this hole?”

“Jackhammer, sir.”

“Good, then.”

There’s a horribly loud noise from down below and John resists the urge to cover his ears. It lasts about ten minutes and then there’s a crumbling, crashing sound. John holds his breath, his whole body rigid. He’s not sure how long he stands there, feeling his breath burning in his lungs, his heart slamming in his chest.

“We have him, sir,” a voice calls up and John almost collapses from relief.

It takes another five minutes to bring Sherlock up by rope and John paces in front of the hole the entire time.

“Give me your hand,” Lt. Mayfield says and John turns to see him helping Sherlock up.

John crosses the intervening space in three long strides, pulling Sherlock into a hug, ignoring everyone else around them.

“You scared the hell out of me, you big idiot,” John says, without any real anger.

“I rather scared myself this time,” Sherlock replies and John realizes that he’s shaking.

John gets a good look at him pushing down his initial panic. Sherlock is covered in dirt. It’s especially matted around the gash on his forehead, caked together with the dried blood. He’s got a black eye, made all the more noticeable by the pallor of his skin. 

“Look at me,” John says, going into doctor mode. He holds up one finger, moving it from side to side. “Follow my finger. Yeah, slight concussion, but not too bad, considering you were about blown up. Let’s get you to the ambulance.”

He moves, putting an arm around Sherlock to help support his weight.

“John?”

John turns to look at Lestrade, who gestures at the soldiers.

“Oh, right.” He turns back to the Lieutenant. “How long will you be under my command?”

“Until I hear otherwise, sir.”

“Right. I’m going to get this man some medical help. I’m turning you over to Inspector Lestrade. Please follow his orders.”

“Yes, sir, Captain Watson, sir.”

John turns to Lestrade.

“Put them to good use.”

Lestrade nods, looking a bit out of his depth.

“Okay. Um…well, let’s go see what other rescue work needs to be done.”

“Yes, sir,” the Lieutenant says, as he and his men gather up their equipment.

Content that Lestrade has everything in hand, John starts leading Sherlock towards the door.

“Captain Watson?” Sherlock asks.

“Problem with that?”

“No. Just a bit surprised.”

“You knew I was in the army.”

“Yes, but I didn’t realize you were an officer.”

“I thought you knew everything about me?” John says, smiling at Sherlock.

“Obviously, I don’t. I’m going to have to do more research, I think.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait until we’ve gotten you patched up again.”

John leads Sherlock carefully through the rubble, maneuvering them towards the temporary triage hospital the paramedics set up. Sherlock is looking around, his face set in a frown.

“God, look at all this.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” John says. “And I’m not entirely sure what brought it on.”

“It had to be that man I was chasing,” Sherlock says, wincing as John turns them to avoid a pile of broken glass.

“But why?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to look into it.”

“After we get you medical help,” John insists.

“Of course, Doctor. Whatever you say.”

“Only you could make that sound snarky,” John says, shaking his head.

“I didn’t mean for it to.” Sherlock’s voice is soft and John looks up to see Sherlock staring at him. “After everything you did for me, everything you risked to get to me…I wasn’t trying to insult you, John.”

“I know.”

They walk up to the ambulances and a woman in a uniform runs over to them.

“We pulled this man out of the rubble,” John says. “He’s got a head laceration and a mild concussion as well as contusions. He might be suffering from mild hypoxia as well.”

The woman blinks at him.

“I’m Doctor John Watson. I’m here with DI Lestrade’s team.”

“Oh, yes, Doctor,” she says. “I’m Madeline Wheeler and I’m an EMT. Bring him over this way. Will you need the paramedics or will you be taking care of him yourself?”

“If I could get your help, I think we can handle this. That cut is going to require stitches and I’m not entirely convinced he doesn’t need oxygen. Do we have a pulse oximeter?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

Madeline runs off and Sherlock is watching John with one raised eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ve just never seen you in doctor mode before.”

“Of course you have. I’ve patched you up plenty of times.”

“No, I’ve seen John Watson do simple medical procedures, but I’ve never seen Doctor Watson doing his job. Oddly, there is a difference.”

“Really?”

“Really. This is a day of revelations for me, Captain Watson. Bland jumpers aside, you are a very complex man.”

John isn’t exactly sure how to take that, but it doesn’t sound too insulting. John wants to give it further thought, but the EMT is back. She brings the meter and an oxygen tank, just in case. John is rather glad she did, because Sherlock’s reading is 93%. 

“How did you not pass out?” John asks, securing the tubing behind Sherlock’s ears after inserting the cannula into his nose.

“You told me not to.”

“I wish that worked as well for storing body parts in the refrigerator or setting my bed on fire.”

“Duly noted,” Sherlock says, but John recognizes his placating voice.

Madeline brings over a suture kit and John starts to clean the wound on Sherlock’s head. Suddenly Sherlock reaches over, catching his arm.

“John, you’ve got a cut on your hand.”

John looks down, surprised how deep the gash is. It’s been hurting for hours, but he’s gotten used to it.

“I cut it on glass when we were digging. There was quite a bit of debris piled on top of you.”

“You need to get that looked at,” Sherlock says, frowning.

“As soon as I’m done with you.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow at John. “I promise.”

Sherlock nods and relaxes. John pulls on some gloves, then uses Lidocane to numb the area around the cut, before he washes all the dirt out and applies antiseptic. Carefully, using his best needlework, John closes the gash and applies a dressing over it.

“There. It shouldn’t scar too badly. It likely won’t even be that noticeable.”

“Thank you, John.”

“We should get you home, though.”

“Not until you get your hand looked at.” Sherlock turns to the EMT. “Could you get someone to treat Doctor Watson, please?”

“Of course,” she says, nodding. And then she’s gone again.

“I can look at it myself, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but it’s your left hand. How can you work on it when it’s your dominant hand?”

“You worry too much,” John grumbles, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“Just as you worry about me,” Sherlock says quietly. 

John looks at him, seeing something new in his eyes, but is too tired to figure out what it is. He considers asking, but just then, Madeline comes back with a paramedic and John is holding out his hand to be examined. It turns out that there are tiny shards of glass embedded in the cut, which explains the throbbing pains. Madeline numbs his entire hand and John has to sit very still while the paramedic picks the glass out. Sherlock sits next to him and holds his free hand. John finds it oddly comforting. Sherlock leans in closer and it takes John a second to process that he’s talking.

“Why?” Sherlock’s voice is just above a whisper.

“Why what?”

“You came all the way down here. You risked your life at an accident scene, you were injured, all just to find me. Why?”

“You needed me,” John says simply.

“You could have sent someone.”

“I did. Where do you think the soldiers came from? Well, okay, Mycroft sent them. But I called him.”

“And still, you came down here anyway.”

“I…” John searches for the words, his feelings swirling around elusively. “You called me. You asked for my help. I couldn’t just let you die.”

“Make no mistake,” Sherlock says, his eyes intense. “I do understand that without your intervention, I would not have survived. By the time any rescue workers located me, I would have suffocated. Once again, you’ve saved my life. And I’m not ungrateful. I’m just curious as to why.”

“Do I really have to explain it to you?” John asks incredulously. “I care about you. You needed me, you called me and I came. Sherlock, if you had died…I wasn’t kidding before. I don’t want to go back to a life without you.”

Sherlock nods, going quiet, although he doesn’t take his eyes off John. John looks down at the man working on his hand and finds himself examining his own motives. Why _did_ he come down here? Yes, Sherlock needed him, but the level of emotion John feels seems disproportionate to the situation. Of course he worries about Sherlock because he’s his best friend. But the breath stealing panic he feels every time he thinks about losing Sherlock seems a bit over the top. If John is honest, he came down here because he couldn’t even face the idea of a life without Sherlock in it. But what does all this mean?

Sherlock is still holding his hand and John looks down, noting how their hands fit together. He finds himself considering how their lives fit together and wondering what they could be to each other. He looks up at Sherlock and feels that rush of affection, of admiration, and… John pauses, finally understanding what the nameless emotion he feels every time he looks at Sherlock is. He frowns. _So, this is love?_ It couldn’t be. Love was something fluffier, cuddlier, maybe with flowers and birds. Or, is he confusing it with a Disney movie? 

As he sits, having his hand sewn up in a triage tent, surrounded by sirens and smoking rubble, John finally understands that love isn’t a cliché. It doesn’t come in a sudden flash across a crowded room or with smoldering heat on a darkened dance floor. Sometimes, love slowly builds between two people who share everything and hold a great affection for each other. It grows with each accidental touch over the breakfast table, each private joke at a crime scene, and even every argument over whose turn it is to buy the milk. It comes out in shared chases after murderers and is displayed in the way two people risk their lives for each other, night after night. It isn’t how he remembers it from secondary school, all nerves and overwhelming emotions. This version is quieter and more comforting. It’s reassuring and beautiful. It’s being accepted for who he is and it’s being wanted and needed, it’s being a part of Sherlock’s life in a way that no one else has ever been and it’s the solid certainty that there is no one that he would ever want to share the rest of his life with, other than the amazing man sitting next to him, holding his hand.

John doesn’t know how he got here, but now that he knows where he is, he finds a peace in it. In actuality, it’s a huge revelation, to finally understand that you’re in love with your mad flatmate. But here, right now, his shoulder throbbing as his hand is being stitched up, covered in dirt and ash and feeling like he’s just walked thirty miles across the desert with a full field pack, he quietly accepts it. He’s sure that once the shock wears off there’ll be a lot to deal with, not the least of which is what Sherlock will think about the whole thing. But that is a battle for another day. Right now, he’s going to get a dressing on his hand and then he’s going to get Sherlock home so they can both get some much needed rest.

\-------------

John hands Sherlock a cup of tea and sits down next to him on the sofa. His back aches and his bad shoulder is starting to feel like there’s broken glass it in, but he can’t deny how nice it is to finally relax. They stayed at the scene for another couple of hours as John helped out with the wounded and Sherlock rested off to the side. When they finally left, they picked up food on the way home and then they both took long showers. John had been so grateful for the hot water, sluicing off the dirt and dried blood. He couldn’t remember a shower ever feeling so wonderful. They hadn’t eaten much, but it was enough to stave off starvation, so John is satisfied. Now they are sitting, dressed in their pajamas, sipping tea, and trying not to fall asleep sitting up.

The cab ride home was an odd one for John. Armed with his new emotional knowledge, John found himself studying Sherlock and he was surprised at how attracted to him he was. As John looked at Sherlock in the dim light of the cab, he had to admit that if he didn’t feel like he’d been sat on by something large, hairy, and dirty, he’d be mightily aroused. As it was, he found himself thinking mildly lascivious thoughts between longings for a hot shower and some soup. How had he missed this for so long? The only answer he has is that he must have been hiding it, even from himself, for fear of losing the relationship they currently have.

“You’re staring again,” Sherlock says quietly.

This is the third time Sherlock has caught him, yet John can’t summon up the strength to care. He shrugs his good shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t die. You needn’t worry so much.”

“I know,” John says softly.

Sherlock looks at John, quirking an eyebrow and studying his face. After a minute or two, Sherlock’s eyes go wide. He looks slightly confused, like he’s not sure of what he’s seeing. His expression settles into a frown, but he keeps watching John. John thinks he should likely worry about this. Sherlock being Sherlock and John being too tired to keep up the game, means that John’s secret likely isn’t so secret anymore. He wants to consider the ramifications of this, but his brain feels too wrung out to put any arguments together.

“We should get some sleep,” John says. “If I don’t move soon I’m likely spending the night right here on the sofa.

Sherlock nods.

“I’m feeling a bit muzzy myself.”

John pushes himself up, then offers his hand to Sherlock. They leave the mugs on the coffee table; they can wait until morning for the clean up. John helps Sherlock to his room and they prepare for bed. Sherlock slides into the bed and John pulls up the covers around him. John runs his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair and he thinks Sherlock might already be mostly asleep, so he’s surprised when Sherlock reaches out and takes his hand.

“I knew I could count on you,” Sherlock murmurs and John gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “I knew you’d come for me.”

They stay like that for a few heartbeats, exhaustion giving everything a surreal glow for John. He’s almost not surprised when Sherlock brings John’s hand up and kisses his knuckles. John doesn’t react for a minute, not until Sherlock starts to run his tongue between John’s fingers. John closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and pulling his better sense around him. He reaches out and disengages his hand from Sherlock, taking a step back from the bed. Sherlock looks up and by the half-light coming in from the street, John can see his face and clearly read the pain of rejection in his eyes. Sherlock presses his lips together.

“Oh.”

“No,” John says, stepping forward quickly. “It’s not…just not tonight, okay? I’m not ready to deal with this tonight.”

Sherlock tips his head, looking at John and John takes a steadying breath.

“I’m emotionally drained and completely exhausted and you’re on heavy duty painkillers. We are not having a discussion that affects the rest of our lives under these conditions.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide.

“The rest of our lives?” His voice is just above a whisper.

John feels himself blushing. That wasn’t presumptuous or anything.

“Well…I…you see…” John is rather wishing someone would break in to kidnap him right now. Where is Mycroft when you really need him?

“No, you’re right,” Sherlock says, pulling up the covers. “Conversations this important should happen when one has one’s full faculties. But, John?”

“Yes?”

“Can you at least tell me how the conversation will turn out? I’ll never get any sleep if I’m worrying about losing y…well, what’s going to happen.”

John sighs, pulling an overstuffed chair away from the wall, closer to the bed.

“How do you want it to go?”

“John, I was licking your fingers. How do you think I want it to go?”

“Right. Sorry. I told you I was tired.”

Sherlock chuckles.

“Well?” Sherlock asks.

“Let’s just leave it that I think we’ll both be happy with the outcome and we’ll fill in the details after we’ve both had some sleep.”

Sherlock nods as John settles in the chair.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Is there a reason that you’re sitting in that chair?”

“I’m going to keep an eye on you tonight. I didn’t rescue you from underneath a building to have you go into convulsions or something.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says nodding. Then he gestures to the bed. “But is there any reason you’re staying in that chair?”

John sighs again.

“Sherlock.” He keeps his voice gentle, but he puts a warning in it.

“I was just asking you to get closer to me. I’m bruised, I’m dizzy, I hurt, and as you pointed out, I’m on painkillers that make it hard for me to keep my eyes open. Do you really think this is a proposition?”

John laughs.

“No, I suppose it’s not.” He gets up and walks over to the bed. “Scoot over a bit.”

Sherlock shifts, wincing as he moves.

“Sorry,” John says, climbing in. “I should have thought about that and not moved you.”

“It was worth it,” Sherlock says, yawning. “John?”

“Yes?”

“Since the talk we’re having later is supposed to go so well, would it be inappropriate to ask you to hold me? I’ve had a really bad day and I just need you.”

John’s heart goes out to Sherlock and he’s moving closer before he even really thinks about it.

“Come here, you big idiot,” John whispers, gently wrapping himself around Sherlock.

“I almost die and you call me an idiot?”

“Yes, but you’re my idiot,” John says, kissing Sherlock’s temple.

“Always have been,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice just on the edge of sleep. “Think I always will be.”

“At least we have that settled,” John chuckles, snuggling closer.

“Mmhm,” Sherlock says and John can tell from his breathing that he’s asleep.

John pulls Sherlock closer, savoring the feeling of having him in his arms. Sherlock almost died today and that concept isn’t lost on John. He knows it’s always a possibility; the life they lead isn’t exactly safe. And while that’s part of the appeal to John it leaves him knowing that every minute with Sherlock might be his last. Tomorrow they’ll discuss this, talk about their feelings and where they hope this goes and John finds himself wistfully thinking about a quiet home in the country where Sherlock can raise bees and John can have his own practice and they can grow old together. He knows something like that will be years down the road, but from the look he saw in Sherlock’s eyes tonight, he has hopes that they’ll get there eventually. No matter what, they’ll work it out together. But that is a topic that will wait until John’s brain isn’t fuzzy with exhaustion.

John snuggles against Sherlock’s back, lightly kissing his neck just once. The soft light from the street below gives the room a dream like feel for John and as he drifts off to sleep, he thinks that everything is going to be just fine. He and Sherlock will make this work and in the end, they’ll get their happily ever after. But right here and now, as John slides into dreams, holding the man he loves in his arms, he’s more than content that they are just safe and together.

The End


End file.
